


before I lead with the worst of me

by themetaphorgirl



Series: Waving Through a Window [3]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Bullying, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidfic, Reid family drama, Spencer is a precocious child, Spencer is academically brilliant but emotionally behind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23337334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themetaphorgirl/pseuds/themetaphorgirl
Summary: Spencer skipped two grades so far. He still doesn't fit in. Fourth grade is tough when you're only seven, and home isn't that great either.
Series: Waving Through a Window [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673107
Comments: 20
Kudos: 301





	before I lead with the worst of me

**Author's Note:**

> "if you're falling in a forest, and there's nobody around, do you ever even crash or even make a sound?"
> 
> Spencer Reid grew up too fast, too harsh, too lonely. His "intellect is a shield which protects him from his emotions" and for a long time he thought he could be just fine without connections. After all, he learned quickly how to survive as a little kid in high school, as a child prodigy in college, as a fatherless kid taking care of his mother while she couldn't take care of him. He could rely on his intelligence, instead of feelings.
> 
> Once he joined the BAU, however, the team quickly formed their own ideas.
> 
> Part 3 of 22
> 
> also published on ff.net under the name Keitorin Asthore

_before I lead with the worst of me_

The adults had warned him that skipping second and third grade and going right to fourth was going to be difficult, but honestly it wasn't too bad. At least from an academic view; he was actually having to do some work rather than just practicing his phonics and plodding through basic addition. The only real problem was the other kids. They didn't take kindly to an undersized seven-year-old stepping into their class and blurting out all the answers that they didn't know. And once he had reminded the teacher that there was homework she hadn't picked up; apparently that was a bad idea in a society of nine and ten years. Any chance he'd had of finding a companion to sit with a lunch went straight out the window with that one. But he hadn't had any friends in first grade either, so at least that hadn't changed. The kids were just bigger and a bit more adept at verbal bullying and physical threats.

He didn't tell his parents about that- the insults, the items missing from his desk, the number of times he had to hand over his lunch money or hide in the bathroom during recess. It was fine. His parents had enough to worry about, now that the university had to put his mother on administrative leave.

He still used the headache trick though. It was the easiest way to get his parents to stop fighting, or make his mother snap out of one of her foggy states if he caught it fast enough. All he had to do was rub his eyes, talk quietly, maybe whimper a little, and his parents would put him to bed with a glass of water and the curtains drawn, and by the time they'd gotten him taken care of everything else was forgotten.

He was faking, of course, but he could make it feel real, real enough that he could feel the headache pressing down behind his right eye and the nausea squelching in his stomach. He was very convincing. This was a new talent he had developed, being able to mimic behaviors and make them as believable as possible.

It was a skill he used in his new fourth grade class, to help him blend in with his older, bigger classmates. He sat at his front row desk, his feet hovering above the floor since he was too short to reach, and he read quietly as his classmates struggled over their word problem worksheets and whispered to each other.

"Spencer," the teacher whispered, and he jumped a mile in the air as she touched his shoulder lightly. "You should be working on math."

"I finished it," he whispered back, turning over his complete worksheet. The teacher skimmed over the answers.

"Good job," she said at last. "But if you're done with math, how about you work on reading?"

"I finished it," he said. "Yesterday."

She looked from the copy of James and the Giant Peach on his desk to the volume of H.G. Wells' The Time Machine in his hands. "Sweetie, are you sure that's the book you want to read?" she asked. "That's a grown up book. And it's a little scary."

"But highly unrealistic," he said. He pushed his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Every writer using time travel as a plot device can only use their own current technology as a frame of reference. Wells could only use technology from the late 20th century, so his story, while creative, is too unlikely to be terrifying."

There was a long pause. Spencer squinted up at his teacher. "Oh," she said. "Well...let me know if...there are any words you need help with."

"I should be fine," Spencer said. "Thank you."

The teacher returned to her desk. Spencer looked around to see his classmates staring at him. He shrunk down in his seat a little bit and held his book over his face to read.

He read until the final bell rang, engrossing himself in the story (he had to admit that the bit with the Morlocks dragging the Eloi underground to be eaten was a little scary, but it was highly unlikely that the human race would devolve into subspecies of deranged simian creatures and simple minded childlike people). The other kids burst into chatter at the sound of the bell, dumping their binders and notebooks into their backpacks and scooting their chairs under desks with loud scrapes. Spencer packed his books into his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and filed out of the room behind his classmates.

He had almost made it to the bus when his teacher caught up with him. "Wait a minute, Spencer," she said. "You can't take the bus home."

He froze. "Why?" he asked.

"Well, you moved from the lower elementary to the upper, and your parents forgot to sign some of your papers."

Not his parents. Just his mother. His father hadn't had anything to do with his transfer other than nod his head when he was asked about it.

"One of those is the permission to ride the older kids' bus. We can't safely put you on the bus until it's signed."

He held on tightly to the straps of his bag. "I've been riding the bus home for the past month," he said in a small voice.

"I know, we hadn't checked to see if all your papers were signed off," the teacher said.

His knuckles went white. "Where am I supposed to go?" he asked.

"You'll go to after school care," the teacher said. "We called and left a message with your mother; once she comes to pick you up we'll have her sign the form and then you can go back to riding the bus. Okay?"

He paused. "Okay," he said. There wasn't anything he could do about it, so he followed his teacher to the playground. She chatted briefly to the attending teacher, a young woman in a cardigan and a striped dress who smiled at him and told him to go play. Spencer Reid just wasn't much of the playing type.

He dodged the shrieking, yelping kids around him and crawled under one of the wooden playscape structures. It was cool and dark; the pebbles were rough and dust tickled his nose but it was peaceful. No one would bother him down there.

He knew he didn't fit in. He was younger, and smaller, and he stuck out like a sore thumb. The other boys had short buzzcuts and sports jerseys and cargo shorts, the other boys talked loud and ran fast, the other boys pushed and shoved and offered half-hearted apologies to keep from getting in trouble, the other boys picked fights and played pranks and complained about homework. And he was just...himself, a skinny little kid with wrinkled clothes that didn't always fit right and hair that was a little bit too long, who didn't always have food in his Star Wars lunchbox but no one noticed anyway because he spent his lunch period in the bathroom or the library.

Mom kept forgetting to wash his clothes. Mom wouldn't take him to get his hair cut. Mom didn't buy groceries because she got lost on the way to the store.

He pushed the thoughts away. He couldn't be disloyal to his mother. She loved him. She meant well. She always meant well.

He curled up against the side of the playscape, the painted wood warm and slightly splintery against his back, and went back to his book. It wasn't his favorite H.G. Wells, but it was good, and he quickly engrossed himself in the story again.

A pair of Nike sneakers crunched Into the gravel beside him, flicking dusty pebbles into his face. "Hey, Weed."

"My name's not Weed," he objected, rubbing dust out of his eyes. "It's Reid. Spencer Reid."

The biggest kid in the fourth grade crouched in front of him and grinned. "No, I think it's Weed," John David said, a smirk plastered on his round pink face. "You look like a big ol' dandelion, like you gotta a skinny stem and a buncha fluff on top."

He ruffled Spencer's hair, a little too hard, and he ducked away. "Please don't touch me," he said.

"Or what?" John David said. His squinty little eyes looked like raisins pushed too far into a cinnamon roll. "You gonna tattle on me?"

Spencer looked down at the ground, counting pebbles.

"I said, you gonna tattle on me?"

Spencer didn't answer. John David shoved him hard, his fat hands smacking his skinny shoulders. Spencer fell back, striking his head against a rough wooden support beam with a crack. John David backed up, scanning to see if anyone had noticed. "That was an accident," he said immediately, and he ducked out from under the playscape structure. In a second his voice blended in with the noises of the playground, the altercation already forgotten.

Spencer hunched forward, his chin on his knees. A tear rolled down his cheek and he swiped it away with the back of his hand. After a long, deep breath, he opened his book again and tried to read.

The noise on the playground began to still as parents came to pick up their children. Spencer finished his book and started it over again. He read until a piercing whistle rattled him.

"We're heading inside, kids, come on in!"

He crawled out from under the playscape and tried to brush some of the dust and grime off his clothes. A dozen kids lined up at the playground fence; he sidled into the end of the queue and tried to make himself as small as possible. It wasn't too difficult.

John David was in the middle of the line, talking loudly to a classmate. Spencer looked down at the ground as they filed back into the school, watching his dirty sneakers travel from the gravel to the grass to the pavement.

The school was cool and quiet; half the lights were turned off and a janitor mopped the gray tile floor, filling the air with the scent of bleach. The young teacher herded the kids into the multimedia room and flipped on the lights. The kids immediately dispersed, running to sit down as the teacher rolled an AV cart to the front of the room and popped a video into the VCR. Spencer tried to get comfortable in the hard plastic chair but his legs dangled. He kept one eye on the TV screen and the other on John David across the room. The older boy was too busy making spitballs to notice him. It was too noisy in the room to hear the National Geographic special on the television, and the back of his head hurt too much to read. Spencer rested his chin on his arms and stared at a colorful poster on the wall.

Parents came to pick up their children in a slow procession. John David's mother came to pick him up; Spencer breathed a little easier when he left. The first National Geographic ended and the teacher put in a second one. The sky began to darken, casting shadows in the room. Spencer sat in silence until he was the only child left.

"Spencer?" the young teacher said. "We've been calling your mother and she's not answering."

He swallowed hard. "She might be at work," he said. He knew she wasn't at work. "Have you tried her office number?"

"We've tried both multiple times," she said gently. "It's almost six. Do you know your dad's number?"

Spencer recited it quickly and sank back in his chair. His dad would not be happy about this.

It took another forty-five minutes for his father to appear, rushing into the room with his car keys jangling in his hand. "Sorry, I'm so sorry," William said. "Diana's out of town, visiting her sister." Spencer opened his mouth; William shot him a sharp look that said _don't say a word_. "There's a paper that needs to be signed?"

Spencer quietly packed up his bag and picked up his lunchbox, sidling up to his father as William signed the offered papers and continued to apologize to the teacher. He capped the pen and handed it back. "Thank you so much," he said. "Come on, Spencer, let's go."

Spencer timidly took his father's hand. William's fingers were stiff in his small grip and his strides were too long for him to keep up without having to break into a hopping kind of jog. The school hallways were empty and the fluorescent lights were turned off. He had never been in school this late before.

Outside the sky was a deep dark blue, the last vestiges of the sun trickling across the horizon. The parking lot was nearly empty. William dropped his hand as they reached the car. "Give me your backpack," he said shortly.

Spencer obeyed and climbed into the backseat of the secondhand sedan. William dropped the backpack and lunchbox in the front seat next to his briefcase and jammed the key in the ignition. The radio blared the local oldies station too loud in the silence for a moment; William jabbed the power button and the car fell quiet again.

Spencer wriggled in his seat, slipping a little bit under the seatbelt. He watched his dad drive, both hands clenched on the steering wheel at ten and two, the streetlights overhead flashing from dark to daylight and back again.

"Dad?" he ventured.

A long pause. "What, Spencer?"

"Are you mad at me?"

William sighed heavily, air escaping his lungs like a balloon deflating. "No," he said. "I'm not mad at you, baby."

The rest of the sentence hung heavily in the air, left unspoken. _I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at-_

Spencer bit at his lower lip. His parents were going to fight again.

William didn't speak again until the car pulled into the driveway. He turned off the engine, then the headlights. "No lights on," he mumbled under his breath. He sighed and opened the car door, the alarm chiming pleasantly until he tugged the keys out of the ignition. "Come on, get inside. It's late."

Spencer followed him, dragging his backpack and lunchbox behind him as William opened the unlocked front door. Inside the house the air was thick and muggy. There was no sign of Diana.

William turned on the air conditioner, then the lights. "Go on," he said. "Go get ready for bed. It's late." Spencer hesitated. His father huffed. "What is it, Spencer?"

"Can we have dinner first?" he ventured.

William rubbed his hand over his face. "Of course," he said. "Of course. I'll make you something. Go get your pajamas on, okay?" Spencer nodded, setting his lunchbox down on the kitchen counter. "Did you finish your homework?"

"Yes, Dad."

William waved him off. Spencer headed towards his bedroom, lugging his backpack behind him. Mechanically he put his things away- shoes in the closet, clothes in the hamper, his books on his desk. He couldn't find his favorite pajamas, but then again he couldn't remember the last time his mother did laundry.

He pulled on a tee shirt and a pair of pajama shorts, then padded down the hall to the tiny laundry room. It smelled like mildew; he lifted the lid to the washing machine and wrinkled his nose. His mother probably started the washer a few days ago, maybe a week ago, and never moved the wet clothes to the dryer.

He tugged out the box of detergent. It was too heavy to lift, but he crouched down and tipped the box, spilling powdered detergent into the measuring cup. He poured the contents into the washer, then pulled the box closer to use it as a stepping stool. The buttons were still a little out of reach, but he leaned as far as he could to hit the right settings. He was rewarded with the washer whirring to life, chugging pleasantly as it filled with water.

He turned off the lights, moved the box back into place, and headed back down the hall to the kitchen. "Dad?" he called. "I did the laundry."

William was staring into his opened Star Wars lunchbox on the counter. "Did your mom pack your lunch today?" he asked.

Spencer blinked. "Yes," he said.

William held up a half-empty jar of olives and a can of beer. "This is what she packed for you?" he said.

Spencer bit his lip. "It's fine," he said. "I had money, I bought my lunch."

His father didn't catch the lie. "Okay, that's good," he said. He opened the fridge and put the olives and beer away. "That's good. Sit down, dinner's ready."

Spencer sat down at his usual place at the table as his father set down a plate with scrambled eggs and toast spread with a thick layer of peanut butter. He swallowed hard. He didn't really like eggs. But his stomach rumbled in protest, and his father didn't know how to cook much other than eggs, and he didn't want to make his father any more upset than he already was. So he took a big bite anyway.

William didn't sit down with him. He stood at the counter, shoveling eggs in his mouth as he dumped dishes in the sink. Spencer ate quietly, eating the bland rubbery eggs as efficiently as possible before moving on to the much more palatable toast. William dropped the last of his dishes in the dishwasher, then picked up the phone. Spencer watched him punch in a number, hang up, try again.

"Fuck," he said at last, hanging the phone up with a sharp click. "Spencer, did your mother say anything this morning about...going out?"

He shook his head. William loosened his tie. "Will she be back soon?" Spencer asked.

"Sure," William said. "Sure, kiddo, she'll be home soon."

He disappeared into the living room; Spencer heard the TV switch on. Peanut butter stuck in the back of his throat, and after fighting hunger pangs all day he suddenly didn't want to eat anything else.

He rinsed off his dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher as best as he could. The last crust of the toast stuck in the sink; he shoved it down with a knife. A sitcom laugh track filtered out of the living room and he followed the sound.

His father slumped on the couch, the beer from the lunchbox balanced between his fingers. Spencer inched closer until William turned to look at him, his face haggard in the flickering light of the television screen. "Done?" he said. "Go on, brush your teeth and go to bed."

Spencer fidgeted, his fingers tangling together. "Can I stay up until Mom comes home?" he asked.

William sighed. "Sure, why not?" he said. He patted the empty space on the couch and Spencer climbed up beside him. "But if she's not back by ten, you're going right to bed, okay?"

Spencer nodded and settled down beside him. The television show wasn't particularly interesting and he regretted not bringing a book with him, but his father was warm and solid and comforting beside him.

"Should we go looking for her?" he asked.

"No, Spencer," William said. "Not this time."

He fell silent. His father draped an arm around him, and Spencer leaned heavily against his side, huddling into his warm safety.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but he opened his eyes to his father carrying him down the hall to his bedroom. "Daddy?" he mumbled.

"Go back to sleep, Spencer."

William drew back the covers and set him down against his cool pillows. "Is Mommy home?" he asked.

"Not yet."

Spencer fought at the sleep tugging at his eyes. "The clothes," he said. "There's clothes in the washer, they need to go in the dryer…"

"I'll take care of it," William soothed. "Go back to sleep."

Spencer blinked hard, trying to focus on his father's face in the dark. William tucked him in snugly, then patted his chest. "Goodnight, kiddo," he said. "Sleep tight."

"But when will Mommy-" he tried to ask, but it came out as a mumble as he fell back asleep.

He woke up in pitch black. His father forgot to turn on his nightlight. And he could hear arguing.

His parents used to try to hide their fighting and now they didn't bother. He could hear them shouting at each other, swearing, name calling, the sound filtering through the thin walls. It was too dark. They were too loud.

His head ached. He reached up and touched the back of his head; in the chaos of the afternoon he had forgotten about getting pushed on the playground. A dull headache throbbed at the crown of his head. It was ironic, really- an actual headache. But he didn't dare call for his parents. Not now. It wouldn't do any good.

He rolled over on his side, pulling the blankets over his head. His eyes burned, but he didn't cry. And he didn't sleep. He couldn't sleep. He hoped the fight would end, that his mother would come check on him, that his father would make sure he was asleep, but no one came for him, no one turned on his nightlight, no one made sure he was all right. So he stayed awake till morning under the suffocating safety of his blankets.

**Author's Note:**

> Oof. Wee bullied Spencer. 
> 
> I'm really curious, though- what are y'all's headcanons on Spencer's childhood? I'd love to hear what other people's thoughts are. 
> 
> Up next: Spencer attends a birthday party. He's not great at attending birthday parties.


End file.
